


Untitled Short Works

by asemic



Category: The Terror (2018 TV series)
Genre: Cannibalistic Thoughts, Gen, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sex Pollen, Spanking, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-04-28 06:10:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14443044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asemic/pseuds/asemic
Summary: Several drabbles, and one slightly longer, inspired by the television show.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These are written based upon the television show prior to my completion of the series. These have spoilers for episodes 1-6 only. Anything posted for later episodes will be kept in a separate chapter. 
> 
> Previously posted to my tumblr and FFA.

**100 words of self-loathing: John Irving**

He feels ill, his stomach lurching as his mind takes him _there_ , to where they acted against natural law and regulations.

Irving shuts his eyes and can only hear the faint squeak of hammock ropes against wood and muffled sighs. Men are asleep, he claws into his fist. They aren’t acting as beasts or lower still as animals follow true order. 

He buries his face into his pillow and grips at his hair, avoids brushing his hips against the mattress. He cannot reach for his Bible, not while imagining how easily he could tear Hickey apart if he so desired.

**100 words of one-pot meals: Dr. Stanley**

“To claim that this is only the cathedral is to liken you to architecture. If I extended the comparison then you would be an abandoned building. Once it held life, the industry of inhabitants and the intimacies of interactions.”

Dr. Stanley’s hands moved from his lap to the edge of the table, a repetitive flutter akin to Heather’s involuntary twitches. The flare of his left nostril and the subtle grimace that pulled at his lip before ceasing, relaxing into complacency. 

“But yet, miraculously, potential. Your brain is a firm custard of fats and blessed matter.” 

He considered his empty bowl.

**100 words: Goodsir/Lady Silence**

“Your father’s objects,” Goodsir stated aloud, to fill the quiet and attempt to create a bridge of understanding. “I know they held great meaning as our own religious items do for us.”

He continued. “This is my Bible. Here is my name,” he pointed to his neat script under FAMILY RECORD. She observed his letters then him. 

“When I have children I will write their names down.” He bowed his head down and traced the empty space. “I will speak to them of the Lady Silence and her friendship.”

Lips tight, she reached for his hands and shut the book

**100 words of body heat: Hickey/Gibson**

“Have you ever been to the Mediterranean? We’ll bathe in the sea, swimming like fish.” Hickey nipped his hip. Gibson brushed his hand along his cheek, painted his jaw with this touch. “You’ll freckle.”

“Perhaps we’ll service there together.” He imagined Hickey’s hair like fire in the sunlight. Cornelius’s mouth teased his cock, coaxing his blood hot. “After I spend what shall I do for you?”

“Nothing,” he whispered, lips against his belly. “Let me enjoy some warmth without suffocating layers.”

Gibson sighed and was enveloped by the sun. “The ocean is so blue and you will taste of salt.”

**100 words of fire: Hickey, Gibson**

“I dreamt of you.”

Hickey rolled his cigarette and busied with another. Waited for Gibson to continue. 

“You had a halo of flame. It slipped off and ringed around your throat.” Gibson shut his eyes, his fingers still against his knee. He lapsed into silence.

Hickey steadied a cigarette on his lip and reached for a match. Gibson’s eyes flew open, hand snapping around his wrist. “It tightened like a noose and consumed you in a curtain of fire. You continued on as if it were nothing.”

His gaze lingered on Gibson. “You’re an oracle, then?” 

Hickey struck the match.

**100 words of words: Bridgens/Peglar**

“I’m certain you’ve read this, but I still,” Peglar cleared his throat. “It may be worth a revisit.”

Bridgens traced the title, a slight smile playing across his lips. “‘Strange fits of passion have I known,’” he began, noting the slow rise of color in Peglar’s face. He swallowed and crossed his arms, securing the volume to his chest.

“I would ask for you to continue.” Peglar stepped closer, head ducked. “If it is your desire.”

“Then let us read it together.” He reached out for Henry’s hand.

Their fingers shook when their mouths met, actions stoked by words unspoken.

**100 words of ice: Crozier, Blanky**

“It is like an organism, a breathing, shifting creature.” Blanky heard another groan, the faintest gurgle. “It is mindless. But it feels vindictive.”

Crozier sighed and splashed an additional measure for himself. It was one of these nights, one for introspection. Best to pour out liquor than his own heart. God knows Thomas had to deal with enough of his melancholy. 

“It is digesting us.” Blanky leaned back and shut his eyes. 

Crozier lightened his tone. “We must make ourselves unpalatable then.” 

“We are fools to believe we can master this, Francis.” 

The ice screeched against the hull in agreement.

**100 words: James Fitzjames**

James gazed out, the landscape bleak like the deepest circle of hell. Perhaps Virgil walked Dante along the very same path; the stalking beast outside surely gnawed upon the three traitors.

“But what is our sin?” He traced his forehead, drew another line of blood. “Are we to be marked for a perceived slight?”

He took a shuddering breath to calm himself. To provide for the men took his strength. His grief for their present situation consumed the rest. He felt painfully alone, abandoned again. 

“Will we too twist in the ice, yearning for Grace that will not reach us?”

**141 words: John Irving**

The rise of color in his face and core is concerning. Being a good man with a sense of Right granted to him through Christ, Irving knows it is the anger he holds that directs this heat.

To watch Hickey, spread prone before their eyes as the lash paints him raw, brings him satisfaction. His quick tongue, how he wears his smirk as easy as a sleeve does a button leaves Irving with unease. The man is unnatural in both urges and mind. 

His blood thins with sweat, turns into a watercolor swirl of pinkish red. 

It is anger at his casual demeanor, yes, that drives his flush and leaves him focused on the thin body. It is that sin that makes him feel the cat heavy in his hand and the resonant impact of the tails against the man’s flesh.


	2. Part II Prompts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit more of these. Some posted on Tumblr, some not.

**Prompt: superior/subordinate | Crozier/Little**

Many times they exchanged a glance and at the moment Edward believed it was a knowing one. The curved cheek and brow, his twinkling eyes. It became a secret shared between two men, both raising their cut glasses in agreement. Edward's straying thoughts cascaded from a river into a torrential waterfall, the sound drowning all others in the cacophony.

How would he be taken? With vigor. 

Their fingers brushed as they read the chart. For a moment the captain traced a demarcating line along the edge of his thumb. In a month’s time they’d reach the shoreline. They were close.

**Prompt: spanking | Irving**

With his wrists held in the hanging loops and his body bent to exposure, he felt the true extent of his perversion. The papist flagellants marched through the streets, mortifying the flesh in the name and spirit of Christ and His Father. Penance, the shame from the pleasure gained by the strokes the same.

He expected the licks to come, for the birch to be applied without warning. There were glorious times where he was allowed to share where he preferred the strikes. Buttocks, outer thigh, a bounce to his scrotum. To force the palm’s attention against the meat of his cheek until he pinked like a crabapple. It curled his toes. 

A better man would rebuke him, claim the devil had entered his soul, taking purchase like a seed. John was not a better man; such a hypothetical person would have nothing left to strive for, worship reduced to mere sustenance without meaning. Anyway, this weakness needed no further judgment, others unable to surpass his own. 

His prick elevated at the sound of approaching footfalls. Always quick to stir, his prick pretty, deemed so by those who serviced him. Later he shall drop to his knees as they did for him but in devotion to God. 

A polite knock, dainty and wholly recognizable. Ah, tonight his favorite; John had no need to even speak beyond his usual cries and whispers, all his needs and wants to be attended to expertly. His body clenched in anticipation. 

Heated breath lapped his shoulder, the branches trailing his rounded spine. “Relax or I shall apply a certain treatment.” 

Steadying himself, John widened his stance and tightened his muscles to tension. He remained focused when he heard scraping, but shuddered upon inhaling the sharp snap of ginger.

**Prompt: spanking | Sophia/Crozier**

Naval men did much to avoid such punishment, but Francis fell to the knees for an entirely different intent when she reached for her black kid-skin glove. Hardly a dignified position with his buttocks raised and lovely plum-head prick rolling against her thigh, but men experiencing pleasured spasms certainly sacrificed much to lose themselves. This amused her, the little jiggle which came with every strike of her gloved hand, the muffled crack so unlike the creaking birch branches.

The oil next. Slipping her index finger into the jar, she parted his reddened buttocks. Tomorrow he would propose again and tomorrow she would deny.

**Prompt: your fave in the news**

Passing the _Illustrated London_ to her youngest, she listened to his halting voice. Only twelve, but he knew his letters, his mind quick like her fingers. Pausing and skipping, he fell silent.

“Well?” The silk peony took shape while she darted her attention to him and her hands. 

“Lady Jane holds hope they’ll be found.”

All that woman did was hope. And all she did was shut her eyes and remember her son’s face. The sharp-tipped wire slipped, the fabric sucking up the blood. Ruined. Gasping for air she reached for another set. The fireplace sparked bright, the newspaper fed to the flames. Words, always words. Got you nowhere.

**Prompt: 100 words no more | Crozier, Irving**

This never felt proper, digging through a man’s belongings when they had so little to claim. The Bible, the small valise with a second prize medal. A dress uniform. At least they could grant him one small honor. Flipping through the letters he found the hopes and dreams of a man interrupted. Quiet contemplation, meditations about faith written in earnest, none signaling the self-deception of the faltering. All through, God would illuminate their path. To what end?

The remains of the inner life of John Irving, spread before him like his body, abused parts scattered. The Navy's son dropped on a cascade of rock and torn asunder.

The hammers rang, the gallows cross shadowing the camp.

**Prompt: BDE/SDE | Irving/Gibson**

He could no longer abstain when need drove him to distraction. The wood amplified the moans and the faint shift of bodies and forced his prick to stand at attention. Not even prayer and reflection pulled his mind from his growing desire. Much like scratching an itch the act of sexual congress provided relief. But John understood to do so more than necessary ran the risk of the skin growing red and inflamed, bloody and infected.

Worse still the other officers knew of his distress. 

“While I commend your discipline, you must spend a bit of your vitality to restore your mental acuity. Please consider how your duties extend beyond your own personal needs. You mustn’t let him become too comfortable, Lieutenant.”

Dr. McDonald spoke delicately, but the unspoken strung between the pauses. Gibson walked with a visible stutter after the rare occasion John took him, his body forced to spread around a sizable prick. He hated how it reared from his groin, unnaturally thick and long, a lurid beast throbbing with animalistic want. The rest of the men above and below his rank knew John succumbed when the steward moved delicately through the ship. They chuckled and their stares penetrated like he breached Gibson. 

The poor man had to brace himself and steady his breathing upon introduction of his well-oiled head. His apologies flowed into rough exaltations with the same ease his semen escaped Gibson’s body, leaking from his stretched hole and down his thighs. 

Shameful. 

The women on the docks knew of him, his member’s dimensions shared by a talkative knee-knocker and spread across ranks like their legs. Even worse they’d barge into his occupied room, gasping their apologies and barely hiding their surprise and sharing horrible praise while he hid himself his hands. John Irving’s prick passed between the lot of them as public property. At least Gibson understood his role and performed it with dignity. John ought to be grateful for having a steward who did not brag about his position or share scuttlebutt. Smoothing the front of his trousers his genitals pulsed the decision. The walk to Gibson’s cabin seemed to extend well beyond its usual distance and he drew his shaking hand into a fist. 

“Mr. Gibson,” he called and maintained a respectful distance from the curtain. It snapped open and John immediately dropped his attention to their shoes. Anything to avoid the expecting and knowing look from the other man. “Are you free in a half-hour?”

“Yes, sir. Anything in particular?” 

John’s belly tightened when he heard the slight hesitation in his voice. He slipped his gaze up along the lean line of his body. The question shone in his eyes _what will you have me do_ and John’s cock drew heat to the answer. “Bring oils. But do not prepare ahead of time. We will do that together to test your training to its fullest.” 

He turned but caught enough of the wince to warm his limbs. Shameful, but how pleasant it was to scratch every now and again.

**Prompt: sex outdoors | Hickey/Tozer**

If he opens his mind, thinks of beyond here, a breeze carries the rush of grasses and pollen. It sticks to the fine hairs of their bodies, yellow bits that create and bud. And leaves, green. In every cell, the veins, drawn up and through: water. Life, a way home.

He looks up and they are canopied by vines. No rocks clack with their fucking, no moans or muttered prayers outside their wind-pulsed tent. Gums pink not purple and bleeding, the color of the bruises between his thighs. 

He aches. Solomon holds tighter. 

When he swallows, there is dirt.

**Prompt: sex pollen | Irving**

The tight halls held in the stank of sex and spilled semen. Quickly, the messes were reduced to oversized fuck spaces with men slick with sweat grinding until their skin arced with lightning. A chorus of moans echoed throughout from those doing and the men fighting their churning desires. Stripped bare to cool his overheated skin John Irving howled his frustration. He prayed for the wind to shift and clear the air of the falling sugar, to cease the violence stirring his blood. The voice purred in his ear

_come home, come home, come, come, comecomecome_

He stalked from his cabin with an iron yard and grabbed the most appealing body from the writhing mass of humanity. Never did he before, not even with a woman, but it was so laughably simple. His hips found the way. John tensed and groped and raised Tozer’s well-muscled leg from behind the knee. Without gentleness and care, John lapped and bit long lines into the man’s stubbled neck and cheek. If this was madness then let him be locked with the rest of them in a perpetual slide of their pricks. How easy it was to let go once he tasted the sweetness.


End file.
